Total Wreck
by LuvDJudge
Summary: McCormick is left in charge of chores at Gulls' Way while the Judge goes out of town. When Hardcastle's prize Corvette is badly damaged, Mark must face his responsibility and make hard sacrifices to repair the problems before the Judge returns home.


Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction for entertainment purposes only. The characters and concepts of Hardcastle & McCormick do not belong to me, but to their creators.

**TOTAL WRECK**

By Susan Zodin

Free at last! Mark McCormick rubbed his hands with glee as he watched the plane lift off from LAX, carrying the Judge off to a judicial conference in Miami. Five days of freedom-enjoying the sun, surf, and Susie, the cute brunette who he had met in the health food store the week before. Yep, that's what he needed--long, lazy conversations on the benefits of vitamin C for the skin, while admiring said skin reclining at the pool and sipping frozen sorbets.

He heard Hardcastle's voice in his ear-"The only thing you're going to do at the pool, kiddo, is clean out the filter!" In fact, the whole trip to the airport in the Judge's pickup was full of recitations off an eternal list of chores the Judge wanted him to do. Mow the grass, weed and water the flowerbeds in the front drive, repair the broken hinge on the patio screen door, and wash the Corvette. "Just wash it, McCormick-don't get any ideas about taking it for a spin. In fact, if I see one scratch on it, you will be spending the next twenty years back at Quentin with the biggest ball and chain I can find!"

Mark knew the history of the 'Vette-how it had been a present for the Judge's son to celebrate his high school graduation, and how the boy went off to fight in Vietnam that same summer, never to come home. The Judge had locked the car away--along with his heart--and had only slowly been able to face using the car in recent years for his own needs.

McCormick pulled the truck into the drive and parked near the front door. He walked around the house to the supply shed--better get all the chores done now, so he could enjoy the rest of the "vacation". Priming the lawnmower with gasoline, he revved up the engine and took off across the long rear lawn, whistling cheerfully.

Four hours later--the grass cut, flowers watered, weeds pulled, and screen fixed--he ambled into the kitchen where Sarah was cutting up vegetables for a stew. Grabbing a chopped carrot and getting his hand slapped away, he went through to the Judge's study and got the Corvette keys out of the desk.

Pulling slowly out of the garage, he parked it next to the fountain and got the lawn hose unwound. Rubbing down the sleek sides and gleaming windshield, he felt a little in awe at being responsible--in a small way--for taking care of a classic car such as this. Because of the emotional connection of the Coyote with his murdered friend Flip Johnson, he could appreciate how the Judge felt about this last connection with someone important in his life. This was all he had left of his son's presence, and McCormick respected that.

Dark clouds loomed over the sea to the West, and the wind picked up--looked as if rain was coming. The sun was still shining over Gulls Way however, so Mark decided to let the car "air dry" while he grabbed a shower and a bite to eat.

Sarah met him in the dining room, rummaging around her purse for the truck keys. "I've got to go pick up a suit at the dry cleaners, then drive downtown to the library. Think you can manage by yourself?"

"Don't worry, Sarah," he replied with a grin. "All the chores are done, and I can manage to keep the place from falling apart for an hour or two. What could happen?"

She looked dubiously at him, but relented--he was, surprisingly, managing to work out rather well--much better than most of the others the Judge had brought home when he got into his "youth rehabilitation mood". "All right, I'll see you in a little while. Don't eat the stew until I get back!"

"Yes, Ma'am," he smirked, touching his forehead in a salute.

As she drove out the gate, Mark entered the gatehouse, peeling off his sweaty clothes. He stretched his aching muscles under a hot shower, put on a clean t-shirt and pair of jeans, then got a can of Coke out of the mini-'fridge and lay back on the bed. Before he knew it, he was asleep.

The sound of hammering on the roof awoke him. The bedroom window was streaked with rain, and the visible part of the sky was black, split every few seconds by lightning. It sounded as if the wind had really picked up. "Jeez," he thought--the Corvette would be wet all over again. Better get it put up in the garage next to the Coyote. He slipped into his sneakers, went downstairs, and opened the door.

A piece of ice slammed against the sill, splintering into small pieces. Other lumps were falling--each a size which Arnold Palmer could use if he ever ran out of Titleist balls. "Hail...oh, HELL!" He sprinted down the sidewalk and out the pool gate, holding his arms above his head and dodging the icy missiles. He stopped short as he saw what was left of the 'Vette. His heart gave a spasm and seemed to stop entirely. Both front and rear windshields and lights had large cracks and holes through the glass, the hood and body had at least thirty dents, and the roof cover was split in several places.

"I'm dead," he kept repeating, staring in shock. "He's gonna kill me...oh boy, is he gonna kill me...." He broke out of his trance and jumped into the front seat, turning the key. The engine came to life (Thank God for that miracle!), and he quickly drove the car into the garage.

Sarah found him there, sitting with his head in his hands, when she returned from town after the storm had passed. He raised his head at the sound of her footsteps and gave her the most miserable expression she had ever seen. "I just fell asleep for a few minutes, and the storm came in," he whispered. "This is awful. The Judge will murder me!"

Sarah reflected silently that he probably would, and turned to go into the house. "I'd better call him..." she started to say, but McCormick lunged after her, catching her arm and actually getting down on his knees with tears in his eyes.

"Please, Sarah...don't tell him now! Please! I'll get it fixed up...somehow. PLEASE!

She looked down at the young man who usually made disrespectful, smart-aleck remarks and grumbled about modern-day slavery, now looking like a pitiful, contrite little boy who feared a spanking. It would be more than a spanking he'd get if the Judge saw the damage to his prized possession, she thought. Why had he even stayed to "face the music?" He could have either taken the intact Corvette while she was gone or run out after the accident before she got back to the house. Why hadn't he? Wasn't he a two-time loser who was good for nothing except picking locks and stealing cars? The Judge wouldn't have taken him in if that were so, she knew, and she was beginning to share his opinion about the young man's inner character and potential.

"Mr. McCormick," she stated, pulling him to his feet, "first, we are going to call the car insurance company to get an appraisal..."

"It's all GONE!" he cried. "TOTALED!"

"...And then we are going to eat dinner and try to calm down. It was an accident. The truck even has some dents from when I was coming back home. The Judge will understand."

"Oh, no, he won't, Sarah!" he exclaimed, shaking his head. "He's been at me all the time--nothing I do pleases him. I'm really trying--but nothing I do is right! He threatened to send me back to prison if I even got ONE scratch on the car, and now it's destroyed! I'm absolutely doomed!"

...................................................................................................................................................................................................

After a fitful night's sleeping, McCormick awoke to Sarah's knocking on the Gatehouse door. "The insurance man is here. You'd better get out there to talk to him." Mark wearily pulled on his clothes and trudged out, knowing just what the condemned man feels like on his last walk to his fate.

The adjustor was young, blond, and friendly. "Hi! Chad Miller, Pacific Coast Auto. Let's look at the damage."

Mark pulled up the garage door--the car looked even worse in the sunlight. "Boy, buddy," Miller exclaimed, "this is a real mess. Tell me about it, Mark thought gloomily. We're looking at nine to ten thousand to repair it. Glass, headlamps, fenders, hood, roof, total paint job..."

"Nnn...nine to ten thousand!'" The words rang in McCormick's head like echoes in a cavern. Where was he going to get that kind of money? He's owe Hardcastle the rest of his life in servitude before he'd make it up. And if the Judge came after his "pound of flesh" as well, you could be damned sure he wouldn't stop when the blood started flowing!

"I'll tell you what would be best," Miller continued. "We can write it off as completely totaled, then you could get a settlement for replacement costs."

"But I can't get it replaced," Mark groaned. "It's not my car--it's my...employer's. It's got a sentimental significance to him, and I can't just trade it in for a new one. I've got to find a way to get it repaired."

"Well, to get the insurance payment," Miller explained, "your employer (he looked at the registration papers), Milton C. Hardcastle, will have to sign this claims appraisal form."

"He's out of town right now and isn't due back for three more days. I'll get him to call you when he gets back," Mark lied, as he escorted the insurance man to his car. He watched with deepening gloom as he passed through the entry gate.

Nine to ten thousand dollars! He's known only a handful of people who even had that much saved. He sure didn't have even a tenth of it. The Judge had put up the funds for the latest repairs to the Coyote after the front fender had been pierced with shotgun pellets while chasing one of Hardcase's "most wanted list". The month before that, it had been brake repairs after a crazy car chase through the mountain dirt roads. He also was covering the ever-rising cost of auto insurance on the racer. McCormick was having to work twice as hard (if that were possible!) to pay him back for the bills. The only way to stop the money drain was to...NO! He couldn't!, he thought. Get rid of the Coyote? Lots of his racing

friends had admired the sleek racer and envied him for having such a fine vehicle. He'd had some pretty high offers to buy it, but he couldn't part with the car that he and Flip had worked so hard over and he had risked his life and possible future in prison to save from Martin Cody's crooked plan.

He felt even more miserable than he had the day before. Sell the Coyote? God...he had no choice. He was left in charge to do assigned tasks-the Judge had trusted him. It was his fault that damage had been done...and it was his responsibility to get things fixed. Damn!--all the Judge's lectures on right and wrong and privileges and responsibilities had started to "take" inside him, despite his best efforts. No easy way out this time, Skid...you gotta follow the rules. "Do the crime...do the time." But now, it was a race to get the deal made and the "Vette in the repair shop before Hardcastle came home and went ballistic. He walked into the Judge's study, sat down at the desk, and picked up the phone.

................................................................................................................................................................................................

Later that afternoon, Sarah watched through the den window as two flatbed wreckers came up the front drive, followed by a white '78 Mustang. Mark oversaw the loading of the Corvette and gave directions to the mechanic to take it to the specialty garage. He then went over to the young redheaded driver of the Mustang. "Hey, Paul...it's been a while. How've you been?"

"Fine, Skid," he replied. "Doing some races in Southern California and Arizona. Boy, I can't believe you're parting with the Coyote like this. I know what it means to you."

"I wouldn't be if I wasn't in a fix," McCormick replied gloomily. "But, I've got to have money right away, and this is the only thing I've got that's worth anything." He gave a small humorless laugh. "The clothes I've got on are recycled from Goodwill, and the pawn shop won't give me anything on my gold filling."

He handed over the registration title and license papers and the keys. "I talked to Barbara Johnson about why I'm selling it. She wished she had the funds to pay me what it's worth but agreed that I should find someone who will use it as Flip meant it to be--racing track." He gave a weary sigh. "I know I won't ever get to use it for that...so I don't want to cheat it out of its destiny, even though I can't share it."

Paul squeezed McCormick's shoulder. "Hey, Skid...don't be depressed like this. I'll treat it fine, I promise." He handed over the check--fifteen thousand dollars. Mark tucked it into his shirt pocket, shook Paul's hand, and watched as the second flatbed rolled out the gate with his life tied down on it. He turned and walked slowly back into the house.

................................................................................................................................................................................................

Sarah came up behind Mark as he quietly piled slices of bologna onto two pieces of bread and opened up the chip bag. This situation was getting totally out of hand. She admitted to herself that she was shocked at the choice that McCormick had made, but proud at the "adult" way he had faced his challenge. But, the aftermath was heading toward tragedy--he was in a deep depression and looked more lost than the night he first came to Gulls Way. He hid it then with a smart-aleck mouth, but she knew that he was feeling his way carefully through the new situation that first week, seeing its benefits and fearing its loss...as he had lost so many things before. Now, he had no emotional anchor to support him--no "ownership" of anything...let alone himself.

He pulled the check out of his pocket. "I guess all that's left is the truck," he said. "Could you drive me to the bank later? I need to deposit this in my checking account and arrange payment with the repair shop. Look...there's some left over to pay Hardcase back for the repairs on the Coyote"...he swallowed hard, facing away from her and staring out the back window..."and the other stuff I owe for. There might be enough left to get me a new tricycle, if I'm a good boy." He laid his head down on the table across his folded arms to hide the tears of pain.

Sarah took the bag of chips he was unconsciously crushing and set it back in the pantry. She walked around to his side and pulled his chin up so he had to look at her. "You are a good boy, Mark," she said, then turned quickly, grabbing up her purse. "Well," she snapped brusquely, "the bank closes at two, so let's get going."

...................................................................................................................................................................................................

Two days came and went...fast seconds ticking by as the garage did a rush repair on the classic car. McCormick weeded the rear gardens, painted the ornamental fence work, cleaned the pool, dusted the Main House, cleaned up the gatehouse (Oh, that's what the floor looked like!), helped Sarah with the laundry, and walked seven laps around the estate, his worry and fear adding adrenaline to his muscles. Finally, after a sleepless night, it was time. The Judge's flight was coming in at eleven a.m. Sarah had gone to pick him up, while Mark waited for the tow truck to transport the Corvette back to the estate.

The ramp was attached to the flatbed, and the driver carefully backed the car down onto the drive. McCormick paid the man and thanked him, then looked the "Vette over. Perfect shape. No scratches. No dents. Glass shining in the sun.

Maybe he could get away with the whole thing, he thought, as he parked the car in the garage. The Judge wouldn't have to know...at least for right now. He could say the Coyote had been borrowed or something. Yeah, McCormick, he thought, disgustedly. Lie about it. That's what you're good at. Avoid getting into trouble by "adjusting" the truth. That's not what Hardcase is trying to get through your head, idiot! You've got to tell him...and hope he's left the shotgun locked up! Besides... Sarah will tell him what happened.

Sarah. He had been surprised at her support of him. She hadn't blamed him for the original accident, even though it was a stupid thing to let happen, and hadn't said any condemning words about his method of solving it. In fact, she was going out of her way to keep his spirits up as if she understood what he was feeling...and fearing about the Judge's reaction. Why would she care anything about him? Most of the time she was complaining about his tracking mud through her clean kitchen or finding him lazing by the pool instead of working in the yard or cleaning the rain gutters (God, he hated those gutters!). Of course, she had had a lot closer relationship with the Judge than with Mark, so he had expected her to take Hardcastle's side. She had worked many years with the Judge and his wife, helping with both housework and his office. Hardcase didn't yell at her or tell her she was lazy or incompetent. He never criticized her cooking or housekeeping. She could make critical comments about his behavior with no repercussions, whereas if Mark had said anything, he would have been quickly told where to go and what to do when he got there. The Judge seemed to have a constant list of "don'ts" and "improvements wanted" every time McCormick came in sight. Mark found it hard to keep a tight rein on his anger, but his inner voice reminded him that the worst day he had here at the estate was better that his best day in prison. He had to keep remembering that...and when Hardcastle learned of the events of the past week, he would have to take his punishment "like a man"...and hope he was still breathing afterwards.

He heard the sound of the truck engine approaching, and wished fervently for a tranquilizer pill...or three. "Hey, Judge...how was your trip?" he asked brightly, pasting a smile on his face. He went around to the bed and grabbed a suitcase, as Hardcastle replied. He threw a quick "did you tell him?" look at Sarah as she shook her head "no". He hadn't figured so...the Judge was in a pleasant mood. Well, just wait a few minutes, kiddo....

"Boy, I'm tired," Hardcastle sighed, as he entered the den and sank down onto the couch. He pushed the "power" button on the TV remote. "Any problems while I was gone?"

"I solved them on my own," Mark replied, inwardly flinching. Well, it was the truth...but not the 'whole truth'. Let's take this confession slowly and maybe it won't hurt as much! "Don't you trust me?" he commented offhandedly.

"Sure I do, kiddo," the Judge replied idly, flipping through the stations. "And Sarah was here to help."

"Yeah," McCormick commented. "She did a lot to help." His guilt was getting bigger and bigger--weighing him down. Come on, Skid...get some guts. "Uh, Judge...there is one thing I need to tell you about."

Hardcastle put down the remote and faced the younger man. "What...you broke another pair of pruning shears? Or did you stop up the shower drain again and flood the bathroom?" He grinned. "I'm not paying for new tile again, McCormick, so you'll have to get down on the floor and caulk it yourself."

"Uh, Judge...it's a little bit more serious than that." Mark gulped down the lump in his throat. Standing in the doorway, Sarah commented, "Well, I'll start getting lunch...." McCormick stood up, his hand outstretched. "No, Sarah, I want you in here. If I have to confess, you ought to be a witness."

Hardcase also stood up, slowly. Mark felt the potential explosion begin to build steam. "Just what do you want to confess to, McCormick?"

"Don't get mad, Judge," Wow, what an original...and helpful... beginning there, boy! he began, backing up as Hardcastle's eyes started to harden. No, dammit...stand firm and tell him the truth...NOW! "Uh, Judge, the day you left, you remember giving me a list of chores?"

"Yes...and you better have done every one of 'em," Hardcastle snapped. "If you get any more lethargic around here, your blood will start to congeal!"

"Well...I think my blood will have something to do in a minute or so, " McCormick muttered under his breath. "Yeah, they're all done. I washed the car like you said and left it to dry while I took a shower. Well...after the shower, I laid down...just for a few minutes, Judge...and I...I fell asleep...and the storm came in and it rained and there was a strong wind and lightning and...a little bit of hail."

"Hail," the Judge said slowly, glaring at the young man as he took refuge behind the sofa. "And just what happened when it... hailed?"

Mark pulled the insurance examiner's form out of his back pocket and slowly held it out. Hardcastle snatched it from his hand, unfolded it, and studied the list, a muscle in his jaw beginning to twitch. "McCormick," he said quietly, so calmly that the hairs on Mark's arms prickled. He looked McCormick in the eyes, taking deep slow breaths. "Do you understand what this means? Do you have any idea how much money this will cost?"

Mark dropped his eyes to the floor, fidgeting. "Yes, I do, Judge. Nine thousand, three hundred and fifty dollars."

"Nine thousand, three hundred and fifty dollars," the Judge repeated. Then, shouting, "NINE THOUSAND, THREE HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLARS! DO. YOU. HAVE. ANY. IDEA. HOW LONG THAT WILL TAKE FOR YOU TO WORK OFF?"

"One day," Sarah stated quietly from the doorway.

"One day?" Hardcastle scoffed. "No, this boy's gonna have a life sentence added to this 'indefinite' custody!" He pointed a finger in Mark's face. "Do you hear me, kiddo?"

"Judge Hardcastle, you stop that right now," Sarah commanded. "He feels bad enough already without your criticism and your threats. No...wait a minute," she held up a hand as he began to interrupt. "Mark didn't intend for the car to be damaged. The truck got dents also, and I was driving it! We got the insurance man out here right away and found out that the repair cost estimate was very high. The man offered to have the car listed as "totaled", but Mark knows how important it is to you and insisted on trying to get it repaired. However, he didn't have any money, so..."

"Sarah," Mark groaned. "Don't..."

"And don't you interrupt me, either, young man", she countered. "As I said, he didn't have the money, so he..."

"He better not have robbed a bank for it," the Judge growled. "Or maybe he mugged the Girl Scout cookie brigade. Oh... I know--he sold his body to science so they could see if there was a brain inside his head!"

"MILTON, SHUT UP!" she yelled, taking both men aback. Hardcastle shut his mouth with a snap, and Mark began to look upon her with new insight and admiration. "It took one day to get the money. Mark called up one of his racing friends and sold the Coyote to pay the garage off. He even had some left over to pay off the other debts he owes you. The Corvette is back in the garage just as good as new, so be grateful!"

Hardcastle stood stunned for a few seconds. He turned slowly toward McCormick. "Mark...?"

"It's okay, Judge," McCormick stated. "The insurance man wouldn't give me a payment check without your signature, and I wanted to get the car fixed before you came home. He swallowed hard. I 'did the crime, so I'm doing the time'--isn't that what you're always trying to get through to me? 'Take responsibility for actions'. Well...I did the only thing I could do. I deserve to pay for this mistake. And...I guess I better get started working off some of my 'life sentence' right now." He turned to go out into the foyer.

"McCormick..." the Judge began. "Come out to the garage with me." They walked out to inspect the repair job. "Looks pretty good to me, kiddo," Hardcastle commented, running a finger along the fender. "You know, I probably wouldn't have known anything at all had happened...unless you confessed to it. Why did you?"

Mark idly straightened up the various tools on the workbench, his eyes averted. "Dunno," he muttered, then shook his head. "Sarah probably expected me to steal the Corvette while she was gone out or run off after the storm to avoid punishment. Most people probably would as well, knowing my past. But, I didn't do either one. I told her the truth...and she believed me. Despite all the bad things happening, she supported me and helped me. I don't know why...but I like the feeling." He looked up at the Judge. "Hardcase, I know it took a lot of guts to take me in. But you've been square with me in laying down rules and expectations, and...I guess I thought it was time that I lived up to some of them...maybe stop being a useless bum who nobody wants." He mumbled the last words, sighing.

"You're not useless...and you're wanted, the Judge said quietly, then spoke up. "You just passed one of my tests, kiddo. You did something wrong, fixed it on your own, and then had the guts to face me man to man to admit to it. No plea bargaining or 'extenuating circumstances' excuses. I think you have the stuff to make it through this 'indefinite' custody arrangement. I may change my mind on the 'life sentence'--you'll have to keep up the good work, though. We'll see how it goes...." He pulled the garage door closed, and they walked back to the house.

"Okay, kiddo, here's the deal," Hardcastle remarked, as they entered the kitchen. "You give me the name of the guy you sold the Coyote to, and when I get the insurance check for the Corvette repairs, I'll pay him off."

"But Judge, I sold the Coyote for fifteen thousand! What's left over is to pay you for all its repair work, and the insurance costs, and the money I owe you for..."

"I use the car just as much as you, McCormick," the Judge replied. We can't have you chasing down the bad guys on a tricycle, now, can we?" He grinned. "Anyhow, a lot of the repair payments come out of the seized funds of the perpetrators--compensatory damages for vandalism of an official police vehicle."

"Official police vehicle!" Mark scoffed. "Come on, Hardcase...that's stretching it a bit, isn't it!"

"Well, I've got my official honorary badge, don't I? I'm working in cooperation with the police. I've got my laminated Miranda right here (he pulled his copy of out his back pocket) ready to assist in the capture of criminals. Just because I choose to drive a non-traditional vehicle to fight crime...I don't know what the problem is. After all," he grinned, "it could be the Batmobile!"

Mark chuckled and shook his head. "Judge, you're something else. I was worried all week that Sarah would be picking out a headstone for me in preparation for your return, and here you are getting my car back for me. Tell ya what... I'll give you the rest of the money Paul paid me. We'll pay him back, then break even--just like we started. And, Hardcastle..."

"What?"

"Next time, you wash the Corvette!"

END

POSTSCRIPT: According to Online web pages dealing with the show's cars, the Corvette was a 1964 Stingray convertible model. The 2003 Blue Book value for it in "very good-excellent" shape is approx. $30,000. Considering the events of the story took place twenty years ago (sometime in 1983), I thought that "half" of that price would be appropriate to use for replacement costs (if it were "totaled"). However, the car, even with the severe external damage after the storm, still had "good spots"--the engine ran fine and the interior was undamaged--and Mark found a garage which could fix it for under $10,000. The value of the Coyote as a "one-of-a-kind" race car has been quoted in fanfics up to six figures, but he had to sell it quickly and took what his friend could give him.


End file.
